The Northern Rains
by D. G. Strachan
Summary: Eddard Stark's execution was the result of a madman's ego. What stopped it was a child's tears. Rated T-M for violence and swearing. It'll probably get worse as time goes on. Also, old fashioned weddings.


A/N: Welcome to my next project. This time, I'm mutilating… Wait for it…

Westeros. That's right; I'm tackling George RR Martin. Be afraid.

Winter is Coming. Ours is the Fury. We do not Sow. Hear Me Roar! Unbent, Unbowed, Unbroken. Here We Stand. Fire and Blood.

The Rain Falls no More.

* * *

A Game of Thrones

The Northern Rains

* * *

_'How typical. People always attend to hear bad news, don't they?'_ the young man thought to himself as he stood amongst the crowd gathered before the Great Sept of Baelor, nearly unnoticeable despite his odd garb and obvious armaments. He sighed, beginning to make his way slowly towards the stone stage to royal party was standing upon, taking care to not jostle anyone. _'No chance before they sentence the man, but after… There might be an opportunity.'_

He watched with a hunter's focus as Lord Eddard Stark, who he knew by reputation, confessed to treason. He snorted. _'Not likely. The man doesn't have a lying bone in his body. Ten Dragons says he's being coerced. Forty says he joins the Night's Watch, and everyone's happy.'_

His eye twitched when the white-blonde haired boy began to speak. "My mother wishes me to let Lord Eddard join The Night's Watch. Stripped of all titles and powers, he would serve the realm in permanent exile. And My Lady Sansa has begged mercy for her father." The child playing at being king paused, smiling at his fiancé, then turned his gaze back to the crowd. "But they have the soft hearts of women! So long as I am your king, treason shall never go unpunished!" He turned to his executioner. "Ser Ilyn! Bring me his head!"

The man felt a searing bolt of anger rip through his apathy. His hands tightened into fists as his teeth ground together. "Fucking Lannisters…" _'Another good man dies to satisfy their family's thirst for power.' _He watched numbly as a pair of the Kingsguard forced the Lord of the North to his knees, then stumbled sideways as something small and forceful shoved past him. His hand shot out instinctively, latching on to the person. He glared at them, then blinked. _'A kid?'_

"Let me go!"

Another blink. _'Dark hair, grey eyes, pale skin. She's a Stark.'_ He looked at the stage, then once more at the struggling girl. Beneath the black cowl of his armored jacket, the young man's eyes met the girl's grey ones. He froze as he recognized them. _'That look… She's going to try and save her father. She knows she can't, but she'll try anyways… She's where I was thirteen years ago.' _He looked at the stage again. _'I can't change the past… But the future isn't set in stone.'_ He quickly returned his attention to the girl and growled, "Go to Flea Bottom. There's an inn, The Bloody Lion. Take four horses, and whatever supplies you can steal. Wait there."

"What?!"

"Do it- NOW!" Giving the girl a shove to start her running and putting her out of his mind, the man began to shove his way towards the stage. Unlike the girl, his six foot body and powerful arms made quick work of the crowd. As he went his right hand fell to his belt, withdrawing a long, oddly shaped dagger. He spun it around in his gloved hand so he held the blade.

On the stage, Ser Ilyn Payne unsheathed the Stark's greatsword. The man raised his hand, falling into the instinctive motions. _'Twenty feet to the target. No wind. One chance. Arm up, hold, breathe in. Snap arm down, release, follow through. Breathe.'_ As if in a trance, he did just that, smoothly lobbing the knife at the executioner. When he felt the hilt leave his hand, he knew the throw was good.

* * *

Ilyn Payne was raising Ice, the massive blade just behind his shoulders, when a solid crunch rang out, immediately followed by a wet squelch. He fell backwards slowly, dramatically. When he hit the solid black stone, the crowd grew silent, curious as to what had happened.

A knife hilt protruded from the executioner's temple, blood and brain matter slowly oozing out from the injury.

The man's face went blank as he broke through the last ring of the crowd directly in front of the captive lord. With a final deep breath, he sprinted two steps and _vaulted_ up onto the stage, to the left of right of the trio of interest. Before they could properly react he had drawn and thrown two more daggers simultaneously, lodging them into the gaps in the Kingsguards' armor, where they had no plate.

No man, no matter how strong, can resist the impulse to cringe when a knife is driven into his shoulder, and it was the same for the Kingsguard duo holding down Lord Eddard Stark. They fell backwards, grasping at the knives lodged between the plates of their armor, only to have metal toed boots slam into the sides of their helms.

Satisfied the men were dealt with for the moment, the man drew yet another knife, this time from a sheath in his jacket, and quickly cut Lord Eddard's bonds. He offhandedly spun the dagger 'round and hurled it at another Kingsguard, missing the shoulder gap by an inch.

"On your feet, Stark. I need help here," he ordered, hauling the ex-prisoner to his feet. He quickly assessed the situation, then jumped to where Ice had fallen, grabbed it, and passed it hilt-first to Eddard.

This all took less than a minute.

The crowd was still silent, hardly daring to breathe as they watched a man clothed in strange black clothing with two swords on his hip single-handedly take on four of the Kingsguard and neutralize two, at least temporarily. He stood like a wolf surrounded by foes on all sides, wary and tense yet oddly in control. He glared at the two Kingsguard, then took stock of the other man on the platform who he saw as a threat. He glanced at the lord he'd rescued, who now was holding Ice in a ready guard. _'I really should have thought this through more,' _he decided, edging closer to the royal party. "Lord Stark, can you handle the giant?" he asked, pointing to the immense, armored figure closest to them.

"I'll try," was all the Lord of Winterfell said in reply, giving Ice an experimental rotation.

The man nodded, or at least his hood bobbed, and he moved to confront the other two white knights, who had drawn their swords and formed a barrier between the rogue and the royals. With a slow breath out, he drew his own sword. The blade caught the afternoon sun and held it, glinting like rain. He held the blade in his right hand, lazily resting the tip on the ground. His entire posture was relaxed, taunting even. And one of the knights fell for it within seconds.

The Kingsguard to the man's left rushed forward, his sword coming up to try for an overhead chop that would split the offender's head in half. The man simply spun to his left, his sword going parallel to the ground as he did so. The armored man's blow missed entirely. The hooded man's didn't. In the middle of his spin he ducked low to the ground, his sword flicking out to shear through the scale mail protecting the guard's legs as he stood again. The Kingsguard fell, blood spurting from the amputated stump where he'd once had a leg. A quick twirl to clear it of blood, and the man's sword was sent in a deadly arm for the other guard's neck. They lifted their sword to block the decapitating strike only for it to go low, then vertical as the long blade bit clean through his armor, flesh, and bone at the elbow.

In the background he was aware of Stark and the giant trading blows, and saw golden figures running towards them. _'This is a problem,' _he decided as he looked at the royal smirked then as he found the best ticket out of the situation.

He rushed the royals, his sword held low and to the side. They scattered, shrieking, but he ignored them save for the redhead, whom he grabbed roughly by the arm and pulled closer. He then raised his sword, still red with blood, to her throat. "Stop!" Everyone did, from the City Watch to the dueling greatsword wielders. The man took quick steps back, moving out of range of the injured Kingsguard, past Ilyn Payne's corpse, until he was beside Eddard Stark. His sword stayed lightly pressed against his hostage's throat. He looked at the boy-king and spoke loudly and clearly, as much for the audience as the king. "Let us go without a fight, or I will cut her throat." Without so much as a flinch, he pulled another knife and cut an arrow out of the air, fired moments earlier by an overzealous City Watchman. "The price for your fiancé, Joffrey Baratheon, is safe passage for Lord Eddard Stark and me out of this place. Once we are safe, I will release your queen-to-be back to you." He cocked back his arm. "Or, I can put this knife between your eyes now."

* * *

Eddard Stark looked at his savior in a mixture of surprise, confusion, anger, and dawning comprehension. The man had taken Sansa hostage none too gently, and was pressing his bloody bastard sword to her neck. His face was still hidden by his cowl, but it was obvious his eyes were locked onto Joffrey, ready to send the poised knife into his head at the slightest hint of refusal.

Contrary to popular belief, he did understand the game of Thrones, and he realized full well what his rescuer had done. He'd put the king in a situation with only one solution: letting them go. If he refused, he and his wife would die. If he agreed but double crossed them, Sansa would die. And the man had been very loud when he spoke, ensuring that everyone present could hear. If Joffrey broke faith, it would lead to great unrest and rumors about his suitability as king.

He wasn't sure if he should be impressed or saddened.

* * *

"They are…" The man's grip on the knife tightened, already visualizing the throw required. "Free to go," the king finished, looking as though he'd just had a sour lemon forced into his mouth.

"You heard your king! All of you, give us a way out of this courtyard!" the man ordered, gesturing with his knife to the main exit. The crowd scurried to obey, tripping over itself to clear a path. He nodded at Lord Stark, silently telling him to go first. The man did so, keeping Ice at the ready as he limped forward.

The hooded man watched him go, slowly following after him, keeping his sword firmly against Sansa's throat. "Stay calm, woman. Only another hundred feet or so. Don't do anything foolish," he cautioned his captive under his breath, walking backwards to keep all his enemies in sight.

"You are mad," was the horrified response.

"Coward." _'Twenty fee- Shit, can't that boy keep his mouth __**shut**__?!'_ the man demanded silently as he watched Joffrey's hand rise, his mouth opening as he prepared to give an order. "Ear!" His arm snapped down, sending the knife on its way.

Everyone in the crowd watched as the chisel-tipped blade hurtled through the air towards the king, who never saw it. The only sign he had of its passing?

The searing pain that replaced his right ear, and the blood that began to spill from the injury like a scarlet flood. The high pitched scream that came from his mouth was in no way kingly, unless they happened to be a young boy whose ear had just been severed.

* * *

"That tears it. Lord Stark- RUN!" The knife thrower barked, sheathing his sword and hoisting Sansa up onto his shoulder in one swift motion. The Northerner nodded, sprinting as fast as his injured leg would allow him to. The hooded man caught up with him in a matter of seconds, despite his burden, and pointed to a side alleyway. "In there."

The chaos began to die down, and guard patrols streamed through the streets, but the three were already tucked away in a well-hidden alleyway.

"That was… unexpected," the rescuer said mildly, looking out of the small, near-invisible entrance to the alleyway. He turned to the Starks, who were sharing a relieved hug. "Lord Eddard Stark. I don't need to tell you how bad our situation is. Do I?"

"No. It is rather clear," the older man replied, looking at the man from over his daughter's head. A frown made its presence known. "I do not appreciate you using my daughter as a hostage."

"She's alive, you're alive, and I'm alive. It worked," the man explained, looking around carefully. "We should be safe here for now, the only people who really know this place are myself and some of the local orphans."

"Dad!"

The man stepped to one side in time to avoid the small blur of black and dirty white as it charged at Eddard, jumping onto him and doing its best to suffocate him. He simply sighed and sat down on a crate, pulling out his sword and beginning to clean the blade. He did his best to ignore the family reunion, but he couldn't help the small smile that made its way to his lips. Nor the way his eyes teared up at the memories of his own family.

He sighed, reaching up and flicking back his hood before shaking his head to clear it. He ran a hand through his hair to keep it out of his face, then went back to his work.

* * *

Arya Stark had, in the space of an hour, watched as her father was about to be sent to The Wall, then sentenced to death, told to steal horses by an odd stranger, ignored the stranger, then watched as aforementioned stranger singlehandedly rescued her father and sister from the black stone stage. She'd followed the three at a very discreet distance, not wanting to make things worse, but she only had so much patience. She'd waited until the Sept's courtyard was clear, then run after the trio.

She'd found them in a nearly invisible alley, and promptly rushed her family, doing her best to suffocate her father with a hug. She almost didn't notice the black-clad man jump out of her way. After about five minutes of quiet tears, creaking ribs, and low mumblings, they separated. Her father and Sansa kept on talking while she turned to look at her father's savior (and the one who'd scared her sister).

Based on the handful of words he'd said to her in the cacophony of the crowd and his skillset, she was expecting someone late in their second decade, or even their early third. But instead, he looked to be in his early twenties, if that. Dark chestnut hair fell to his shoulders, impatiently tucked behind his ears. A strong jaw and gentle cheekbones were still covered by the firm flesh of youth, though there were creases at the edges of his eyes and between his brows. Serious, grey-green eyes stared intently at the long blade he was working on.

The eyes were what made Arya look twice. They were… old, she decided, like her father's. There was sorrow, and pain, and anger, and regret, and hatred, and a small amount of happiness. They were the eyes of a warrior. She decided she liked them.

Those eyes flickered up to meet hers, and the young Stark blinked.

"I'm guessing you ignored me when I said to get horses?" the man asked drily, a hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. The Stark girl blinked and nodded, then shrugged. He shook his head and returned his sword to its sheath. "It's just as well; we won't be using them."

"Then why'd you tell me to get them?"

The smile that had previously threatened took form as the man gave a quick laugh. "I needed you out of the way." He looked to the Stark patriarch, rising to his feet and walking over. "Eddard Stark. I've heard good things about you." He offered his hand to his elder. "Arlan Rain. Wanderer, swordsman, scholar, and enemy of the Lannisters." His smile vanished. "I think we can help each other."

* * *

A/N: This is not the final product; more of an idea. It'll be refined and polished, rewritten, deconstructed, and remastered before I go any further.

Notes:

Characters' Ages: Mostly the same, though Sansa and Arya are closer in age now, and slightly older. 12-11, respectively. As far as our new guy, take a guess.

Arlan: Looks like Kurt Cobain with different hair and eyes, and a bit more lean in the face. His clothing is the Westeros variant of The Witcher 2's Kinslayer garb, minus the backsheathes, leather sash, and book/pouch. His sword… Well, I haven't found a good model for it yet. Probably will use The Witcher as inspiration again.


End file.
